Me at a friend's graduation party (a bunch of us graduated with him, though). I'm giving the camera quite the odd look, there.

Orbital kitty in stasis.

Orbital kitty ready for docking.

Here is the final version of Lord Blademaster Patriarch NightHawk Falconis. There will be a slightly higher-quality picture of this up at my Elfwood gallery whenever the moderators get around to processing it. For now, this will have to do unless I post it on DeviantArt. As usual, thieves will be caught, imprisoned, and hung by the neck until dead.

Here it is again, the little snippet from my book, "Rose Prophecy." This work is Copyright 2005 Jeff Wilcox. Enjoy!

   Tonight the rose's dark red petals enclosed him safely within their velvet warmth. The forest was deep and dangerous, but he was safe in the petals of the rose, protected from all harm.
   He would have been content to lie there forever, but the rose would not allow it. Slowly its petals opened, and he looked out into the night. The black trees loomed overhead, all but blocking the light of the moon, and the only substantial light came from the rose itself, dampened though it was by a thin layer of blood near the edges of the huge petals.
   Then something glimmered in the air before him, and he squinted, even his keen eyes unable to discern what it was. It shone like steel in the night, a silvery glow not unlike that of his eyes.
   Then he saw that it was indeed steel; in fact it was his sword, twirling gently in the air, so close, yet so distant, until it spun around so the hilt pointed toward him, and suddenly it was touching his fingers, as real and lifelike as it could possibly be. The familiar leather wrappings were comfortable in his hand, and the little silver falcon on its chain dangled right in front of his nose, chiming merrily as light played about its shape. But then the sword was yanked from his hand and spun around in the air, the point aimed straight at his heart.
   With dread, NightHawk watched as time slowed down, as it always does when one is in dire peril: the sword rushed forward, driving its point deep into his chest, farther and farther, until the hilt touched his breast, the cold metal a surreal feeling against the stark sensation of death. He tried to scream, but only blood poured from his mouth, dripping down onto the hilt, where it disappeared. The blue glow that emanated from his chest shone brighter as the runes soaked in his blood.
   Then he woke with a start, but the nightmare was not finished. His room was the same, but his chest felt rather odd. Looking down, he saw the sword, embedded up to the hilt, protruding from his chest, and he tried to shout again, but once more nothing but red lifeblood poured from his mouth and collected on the hilt of the sword.
   But he did not die, and that was something that a tiny corner of his mind found rather interesting. The sword was in his chest, but he felt only a coldness, instead of the searing pain he had felt in the dream.
   That was washed away as he watched in terror as the blood on the hilt shifted, gathering itself together into one large drop almost at the blade. Then it began to form, but somehow NightHawk Falconis already knew what would happen. Petals, red and dark, coalesced into existence from the blood that writhed like a dying beast on the hilt of the blade. He watched as the flower snaked a stalk down the handle, wrapping once about the black leather as leaves sprouted on either side of the hiltguard, uncurling and opening their green surfaces to the world.
   Then Falconis gasped as the blade began to slide out of his chest. It was not the sensation of a sword being removed; rather it felt like it was entering, only backwards, for when the first flange on the blade passed through him it did not leave a bloody mess behind. Then he felt the rest of the sword sliding ever so slowly out of his chest, and he gasped blood, which still ran down to be absorbed by the sword.
   Finally the second flange passed through his chest, and the sword came out with a pop, to hang in the air before him. His chest was unmarked, and the blood that should have run into his bed was not there. But he did not notice that, for he was still under his own sword's spell.
   The blade rotated so that the flat faced Falconis horizontally, and the runes seemed to shift, spelling something different than what had long ago been inscribed upon the edge of the blade.
   NightHawk Falconis read aloud, though he did not know it:
   "On the day that I die, Rose shall cry.
   Threads of fate bind the black dragon and the white bird of night.
   Together, into darkness shall they descend,
   But the Feathered shall one day soar back to the heavens,
   Where eternal rest shall embrace him.
   Let the black Fires of Rayge consume the souls of those who strive
   To bring doom upon their kindred.
   The storm of black feathers shall be unceasing."
   NightHawk Falconis fell back on his bed as the spell released him. The sword clattered noisily to the floor, though that did not bother Falconis, who had drifted off into a peaceful sleep.